


Well Played, brother

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, First Time, Happy Ending, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Military, Nightmares, PTSD John, Pre-Reichenbach, don't wake someone up when they're having a nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:18:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3833320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fiction in which Mycroft observes John Watson, specifically things about John Watson and his brother.  The dynamics of the pair under the meddling of a well-meaning older brother, start some interesting events in motion.  Set in season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well Played, brother

Incoming text tone, from Sherlock. John has set his mobile for unique incoming texts, although it’s almost always Sherlock who is doing the texting. And it’s almost always a request. And if not a request, a warning. A few weeks back it was a request to please bring home particulate respirator masks - which, John would agree, was both a request and a warning. The incoming text tone, at least when it was not on silent in his pocket - you do know I have a job, right? he has asked on more than one occasion - was the first four notes of Beethoven’s 5th. Duh-duh-duh DUHM.

It was much less offensive than Irene Adler’s incoming text tone had been, the sexually aroused sigh of a woman. The fact, though, that Sherlock never changed it had set John wondering a bit about how disinterested in sex Sherlock actually was. He claimed he couldn’t make it stop, which was the most ridiculous thing John had practically ever heard. His flatmate had unique skill sets including picking locks, playing the violin, and the use of a professional grade AmScope microscope. Certainly he was capable, which got John thinking that perhaps, he wasn’t as married to his work as he’d professed to be.

**I caught an enormous beetle. Please bring home a large specimen container. -SH**

He wondered how enormous. His own personal definition changed after his years in the military. Now Afghanistan, that was a country that produced enormous bugs. He wondered, if a specimen container was needed, exactly where the bug was presently. Opening his to-do list, he had planned on adding “wash all food containers” but found it was still on the list from last week, when John had found a delivery of several virus specimens, or rather, he’d found the packaging next to some of the glassware in the kitchen. As none of them had fallen ill, he figured that whatever viruses he was studying were still susceptible to soap and hot water. Last month it had been formaldehyde, the scent of which John recognized immediately from med school days in the cadaver lab. Sighing at the list on his phone, he stared at it idly, thinking about completing it, and adding it back just for the sense of accomplishment, decided that was ridiculous.

Sarah was in the equipment room restocking when John poked his head in, grabbed what he needed. Their eyes met, hers more of the please don’t remove inventory I’ve just tallied sort, and John slightly shook his head. “Don’t ask.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She vividly recalled their date, which had turned into a trio, and tried hard not to recall the sheer terror when her very life in danger. It was a surreal memory, so removed from reality, she couldn’t help but shudder. And mostly tried to pretend it didn’t happen. “See you tomorrow?”

Nodding, John said, “I’m in at noon.”

More often than not, when he left the clinic before dinnertime, he walked home, often picking up food on the way, either takeaway or something from the grocery and they would fix dinner. Well, John would fix dinner and Sherlock would critique him until John got fed up with it and stomp off. On more than one occasion, Sherlock might then finish dinner, but rarely; more often, John would return minutes later, banish him from the room, occasionally from anywhere John could still hear him and his running, snide commentary. Much of the time, John thought Sherlock liked arguing for the sake of the conflict, even better if he ended up winning. Occasionally, John let him, but not too often if he could help it. Sherlock was a spoilt, indulged flatmate, and John wondered if living with him was punishment for something he’d done as a kid in Scotland or for something he’d done in med school. In fairness, though, Sherlock himself had warned John prior to their moving in to 221B. And, fuss though he might, John knew that his new lifestyle - job, flatmate, the whole friendship, blogging about crime scenes - was just what he had needed. And it was, in a crazy way John tried not to overanalyze, very fulfilling.

Walking home today was no different, under gray skies, and he picked up easy fixings for shepherds pie. One of his own favorites, and he had long ago decided that his appetite and preferences would determine their menu if he was doing the shopping and the cooking. Shepherds pie it is. 

Arms full, he jockeyed the bags a bit to unlock and then open the door to the flat. Sherlock rose to meet him at the door after he was inside, looking sharply at the bags, and took only the one with the specimen container.

“No, no worries, I can get the other 5 bags. Thanks for your bloody help.”

“I swear you whine every day as soon as you get home.” Sherlock opened the container, headed to the table in the kitchen. John kept an eye on where he was and what he was doing, concerned as to the present habitat of the captured beetle. It was, fortunately, in a ziplock bag, and John thought about voicing his approval, changed his mind when he saw the condition of the rest of the kitchen. Sink with dishes, containers out, worktop cluttered, and John could even see a spill that had dried on the stove by the teakettle. While they were not especially pristine, this was much worse than usual and definitely had occurred since John had been home this morning. He seethed, just a bit.

“Perhaps you can clean this up? There’s no way I can work around this.”

“Oh, please. Kitchens are boring.”

“Now you’re whining.” Sherlock’s expression snapped to John’s, a pale blue eye narrowing in displeasure. “If that is supposed to be frightening, it isn’t working.” Sherlock took the specimen container, looked away.

John set the bags down, watched Sherlock transfer the beetle (safely) and discard the bag (sigh of relief).

Footsteps on the stairs sounded, louder, until there was a clipped knock. Not Mrs. Hudson, then. Blast it, John thought, as they both realized who it was. Mycroft. As if there wasn’t enough Sherlockian petulance going on in the flat, the arrival of Sherlock’s brother set both of them on edge. John put a halting arm out as Sherlock moved as if to disappear into his bedroom, shaking his head. “Kitchen,” was all he said, tersely, as he answered the door.

Mycroft entered in his typical quiet bluster, resplendent in his waistcoat, pocketwatch, perpetual umbrella. He also carried a book with an interesting title, John thought cynically, of Compendium of Applied Chemistry. He handed it to John, who set it next to Sherlock’s chair. Pleasure reading per his request, then. Sherlock was making tons of noise in the kitchen, obviously expressing his displeasure at the task and displaying typical passive-aggressive behavior. Mycroft sat, then, when John gestured, assuring him, “He’ll be done in a few, I’m sure.”

There was a snort from the kitchen followed by running water. Wondering if he should supervise (i.e. babysit) he chose gingerly to join Mycroft but keeping an ear tuned to the sink. There was the sound of breaking glass followed by a snicker and a “whoops” from Sherlock.

“You know, it’s going to be easier to wash them than to clean up all the broken glass.” John sighed, recognizing the agenda, rolling his eyes. He picked the chemistry book back up, thumbed through the text. “His? From university?”

Mycroft’s nod, his usual, an incline of his head in the affirmative. John tried not to sigh in his refuted efforts at conversation.

“He took a lot of notes.” The margins of the book were carefully punctuated with complicated formulas, additions, in careful script. John considered his med school days, where his texts were highlighted key points rather than added to. The voluminous amount of reading he’d found challenging enough, let alone to add to the works as Sherlock’d done.

From the kitchen, water still running, John recognized sounds of progress, considered appropriate timing to descend, both to assure satisfactory completion as well as to start dinner.

Mycroft spoke, then, finally. “Dr. Watson, --”

“John.”

“-- I must commend you. You have accomplished more in the six months you have lived here than anyone previously has managed to do as far as getting Sherlock to clean up after himself.”

There was a sound of dissatisfaction from the kitchen, and a cabinet door slammed shut.

“Keep your bloody mouth shut, Mycroft.” Sherlock appeared in the open doorway, then, a towel working randomly over a large bowl.

“No. No one else ever figured out how to handle you.” Mycroft stood up, then.

“I don’t _handle him_ , Mycroft.” He thought about calling him Mr. Holmes just out of spite.

Both Holmes’s turned toward him then, one of them disagreeing more than the other, but both obviously disagreeing and vocal to the point that John didn’t even try to listen, and it struck John then, not for the first time, how strange they were. Family dinners must have been quite... entertaining? Odd? Awkward?

Finally, Sherlock was done, and John was reasonably impressed once he headed into the kitchen to quickly brown the steak and assemble dinner. The brothers ended up deep in conversation about some goings on in a distant branch of something that John gave up trying to follow. John returned to the sitting room with tea, finally, dinner in the oven. 

“Are you joining us for dinner, then?” John asked in Mycroft’s direction.

“No.” Sherlock answered for him.

John let that go, although Mycroft did not miss the glare nor the tap on the foot that John delivered for his rudeness.

“What? No, he’s not invited.”

“Actually I invited him, or did you fail to observe that?” John watched Sherlock get minorly huffy and rise. He picked up the container with the beetle, brought it back over, handed it to Mycroft. Also odd. A gift perhaps?

Mycroft was not engaged in the antics Sherlock was trying to create, and held the container up near his ear, likely heard the faintest scratching of hard-shelled legs. “Beetle then? Or scorpion?” He set it down, unopened.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up a bit at the mention of the scorpion. “It’s a beetle.” Mycroft peeked under the lid, closed it, handed it back. “But... scorpion? That would be fantastic.”

“Oh, ho, no it would not.” Both Holmes’s turned at John’s reaction. “What? Have you never actually seen one, then?”

“I’d like to. Maybe we could order one...” Sherlock flipped open John’s laptop. John, not one usually for removing something from Sherlock’s possession for fear of destruction of said item, eased the laptop closed, took it.

“No,” he said again, emphatically. Something in John’s expression made them all pause, waiting. John debated, finally continued. “Saw entirely too many in Afghanistan.”

Sherlock couldn’t mask the delight, unfortunately, and John both recognized and appreciated his quest for knowledge, even if it bordered on questionable topics. When John described some of the ones he saw, primarily in the desert at night, Sherlock grew almost wistful. “I would have loved to see that.”

“No you wouldn’t. Their stings are bloody awfully painful.” He’d been stung once, and it was enough. He had, however, treated multiple stings; there was one fatality in his unit, he explained, in a soldier allergic to bee stings as well, who had left his epi-pen with his gear. “I have a few photos. Dead ones mostly. The only good kind of scorpion.”

An intensity came over Sherlock, then, although he tried to temper it seeing John’s reaction and hearing the stories. “Photos? Where are they?”

There was a pause, silence falling over the room. John could tell Sherlock was waiting for him to volunteer to run up the steps, bringing the photos down, indulging his whims. Even Mycroft seemed attentive, and John sighed. “They’re upstairs. Box, top right of my closet. Probably labeled military photos.” Sherlock unfolded long legs and displayed energy that had been conspicuously absent while cleaning the kitchen. He returned moments later with the box, opened it and then, when Mycroft cleared his throat, he handed it to John, who had just returned from checking on dinner. He found them quickly, a few photos into the stack, handed them over. Sherlock was less impressed with the images than John was expecting, then realized he was a tactile and visual scientist, and typically preferred real samples to data or single dimensional anything. As evidenced by the typical contents of their refrigerator on any given day. Or the beetle.

Sherlock glanced another time through the scorpion stills, then casually meandered further into the stack. There were a few silly photos from John’s unit, a few of John in hospital, around the base, several of the desert landscaping, and then Sherlock paused over another. When John looked to see what had his attention, Sherlock flashed the photo toward him. Mycroft had been leaning in to look, but now sat back, watching the dynamics as if a casual observer. The atmosphere in the room seemed to change, then, to barometric low pressure, a cold front coming, as John saw the smiling, lively, energetic image. The smile certainly left John’s face abruptly, leaving quietness. Sadness. Grief.

“Cooper.” Just a single word he said, with a degree of tenderness and fondness, in explanation. When he realized that was inadequate, he took the photo, stared at it, a soft smile in remembrance. “He was a brilliant medic. Amazing.” He looked right into Sherlock’s steely blue eyes, feeling the connection between the words and what he has been known to say, truthfully, complimentarily, to the detective seated next to him. Who was also brilliant and amazing. “He died the night I got shot. We were under siege, sniper, bunch of kids in the medic tent. Cooper and I were on duty. I got lucky, and...” his voice broke, then. He hadn’t looked at that photo since it’s placement in the box months before. “...and he didn’t.”

Sherlock was uneasy, uncertain. His perception of emotions in others was far more advanced than his own personal, but he recognized pain in the voice and carriage of his flat mate. He eyed the photo still in John’s hand, said “I’m sorry John.”

“Yeah, well, thanks. He was a good man. You would have liked him.” _He was a lot like you_ , John left unsaid.

“He from England, then?” he asked gently. 

“No. From the States, actually. But a good chap. Long way from his wife and kids at home.” He glanced at both of them. “Sorry. I’m just... Sorry.” Shrugging, John truly felt apologetic for being a downer, wondered when some of those memories wouldn’t be quite so triggering of pain. He felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, and had he been looking, he would have seen Mycroft’s brow raise. Sherlock’s hand... on his shoulder. Sherlock, who didn’t do touch, physical contact, certainly not expressions of outward compassion. Who barely tolerated people in close proximity. Even trapped with his difficult memories, John recognized the gesture in his flatmate, placed his hand carefully over Sherlock’s as it rested on his shoulder. “Thanks for that.” John felt an urge to lean his head on Sherlock’s hand, close his eyes and just breathe, wondered where that came from as he resisted. “It was a long time ago. He never had a chance, the bullet...” His voice caught again, and he realized it was time to change the subject. He took his tea, still in his hand, raised the cup slightly in honor, said quietly, “Here’s to you, Coop, you were a good friend.” Mycroft and Sherlock both joined him, a silent and modest tribute, and John felt a pleasant tug of surprise inside.

John tapped the photos on the edge of the table, straightening edges, laid them back in the box. “You want to leave that one out?” Sherlock queried, watching John’s expression.

John shook his head. He felt guilty enough without Cooper staring at him. He rose, set the box on the steps, turned back to Mycroft. “You sure you’re not staying? You are invited, you know.” He rose, too, taking all this in, nodded to them both, his silent manner of goodbye, and left. John moved to carry dinner to the table, and conversation turned back to the beetle, who Sherlock insisted could join them for dinner. John drew the line at opening the container, wondering if he would sleep that night for fear the beetle would escape. It was, he admitted, looking closer at it, rather large for London.

Dinner was enjoyed by John, picked at by Sherlock, which mostly equates to a success. Conversation was light-hearted after the turn of events, and it ended wonderfully for Sherlock anyway when he received a text from Lestrade regarding a case. And so the kitchen remained messy yet again as they flew down the steps, buttoning coats as they went, in order to render aid to Greg and his crew, which Sherlock, unfortunately, before the night would be out, would refer to as blithering idiots three times, and threaten to banish them to the Isle of Misfit Toys once. It earned him nothing except glares from everyone including John, even as he protested that, “for God’s sake, I solved the bloody case for you!” and then proceeded to complain that it was too easily solved, bring him something more challenging next time. While Sherlock stormed off to hail a cab, John, in typical fashion, bade farewell to the detectives, apologized a bit to Lestrade, who merely rolled his eyes, and managed to get to the cab before it took off without him. Again.

After returning home, Sherlock went to the computer - his own this time - while John went straight to bed. The blog would wait. An hour later, he was back in Afghanistan, a tent full of wounded soldiers, kids really, each one injured and in desperate need of attention. There were scorpions stinging some of them, and a sniper picking off people outside the tent. His nightmares had been so much improved, fewer and farther between, and this was just so real. In his dream, he could smell the coppery blood, the heat blowing across the sand, smell the lousy coffee and the sweaty unwashed soldiers who had come in from the fighting. Oh, it was intense, and he dashed from one kid to another, suturing, bandaging, knowing some were going to die anyway. He saw Cooper in his dream, his chest exploding, his yell of agony and fear coming from his own lips, and he felt his own shoulder stinging, lashed out in his dream...

...and connected with Sherlock, who had heard the night terror, been drawn to John’s side, unsure how to awaken him, unsure how to harness the demons within.

The connection, from John’s powerhouse of a flailing left hook to Sherlock’s mandible was enough to derail the nightmare into a pile of sideways train cars, screeching brakes, and carnage. The force of the scream died on John’s lips but echoed inside his head, inside the room upstairs, skittering fragments of brokenness that had bubbled up to the surface on photos in the box and the recollections that had stirred, the bask of friendship that had been so good, so close, so abruptly ended. John had long lamented his inability to say goodbye. Writing a letter to Cooper’s family had been something he’d considered, couldn't do, couldn't imagine. 

“Shit!” This from John, seeing Sherlock’s form illuminated from the stairwell light. “Holy shit.” Wide eyes - John’s - stared into wide eyes - Sherlock’s. His head was bowed, a hand to the side of his face. John’s knuckles were stinging in cadence with the pounding of his heart, the catecholamines surging. Minutes ticked by. “You okay?”

“So I guess roommate instructions should have come with do not disturb during a nightmare?”

“Everybody knows that. Genius.” Kicking off covers, sweating profusely, John swung his feet off the bed. He made no move to rise. Taking another deep breath, he waited for his symptoms of distress to ease. But his mind was still engaged, even awake, the emotion of the dream and the vivid pain, no _vivid heartbreak_ of the days that followed were strong. God, there was a reason he had needed counseling after his return home. PTSD was a terrible and on some levels uncontrollable helpless agony. He glanced up at Sherlock again, who was watching him unwaveringly. “Your face...?”

“Yeah, it’s ok. Nice left hook.” His words were temperate. “Remind me not to piss you off.” He took a few steps in the shadowy room to the chair, where John had tossed a light jacket, shirt. He set them aside and lowered himself into the chair. It seemed to both of them that the mere act of sitting down mitigated the tension in the room. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

John raised an eyebrow, probably too dark to notice. Except that it was Sherlock who earned a living by noticing.

“The photos. Talking about Cooper, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was going to be a trigger.”

“Yeah, well. I had nightmares every night when I first got discharged. It’s been...”

At his hesitation, Sherlock answered, “Eight days. Since the last one.”

“What?”

“Oh come on. I don’t sleep that much. I hear you. A few times I’ve watched. This was a bad one.”

“You watch me?” He shuddered, trying to assimilate that information. “God, I may never sleep again.”

“I don’t watch you sleep. But if you’re yelling... I mean, maybe there’s something...” His voice trailed off, sounding a bit gravelly. “Most of the time it’s short and you wake up yourself. They’re less frequent and shorter duration...” At John’s sharp gaze and obvious displeasure at that, Sherlock stopped. “What?”

“Are you doing _research_?”

“No. Of course not. I’m observing, do try to keep up. You’re welcome to see the spreadsheet any time.”

“Fantastic.” John reached over, turned on the light.. Both of them looked away from it, the brightness mildly uncomfortable after acclimating to the darkened room. He stood, crossed the room to Sherlock, tilted his face to allow for better visibility. “You should probably put ice on that. Nice bruise starting.”

“It’s fine.”

“I don’t want to have to look at it any longer than necessary.”

John shrugged into a dressing gown, padded on bare feet into the hallway and down the stairs. There would be no sleeping for a while, he figured, anyway. Might as well.

Before long, they were back in the living room, telly on mindless latenight programming, both with tea and one with ice in a towel pressed to side of face. 

“So... Cooper was, who exactly? Special to you? More than a friend?”

“I told you about him. He was married with kids.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.” Sherlock backed off a bit, let his statement just hang there.

“Can I just tell you, when you are in awful circumstances doing awful things, helping people who have also had awful things done to them, there’s just no explaining the kind of... need you have for other people. You get dependent on some levels. Cooper was... he was just...” Words tightened up in John’s throat, and he paused, regathering his thoughts. “Ok, so he was a medic. He also had some sense about who was going to be fine and who needed immediate care. When he would tell me that he had a bad feeling about someone, I would sit up and listen. And act. He was almost never wrong.

“He was great with the soldiers, yeah? He knew what to tell them and when to lie to their faces and tell them everything was fine. Sometimes he just hung on to them while they bled out and died on the stretcher there. When we took them to the operating room and gave them anesthesia so they wouldn’t have pain anymore, and we knew they would never wake up. Cooper got me through my terrible orientation and descent into hell, my first OR marathon, the first time I saw the aftermath of a brutal beheading in a village. He was amazing, insightful.” John paused. “He was a lot like you.” When their eyes met, he continued. “I realized that right away on some level, but didn’t see the parallel between you for a few weeks.”

“John.”

He swallowed, remembered when they gave him the news that Cooper had been KIA there in the field hospital, on duty. He knew Cooper’d been shot, knew it had been a chest shot with deadlier aim than the bullet he’d taken in the shoulder.

“That still wasn’t what I asked, you realize.”

“We were... we hadn’t... We might have been heading that way, but...” he leaned his head back, eyes closed because it was easier. “... but then he got killed.” _God I loved him_ , John breathed, then stilled. The words that were meant for inside his own head came out quietly, a whisper in his ears. 

Minutes ticked by, and John felt his mind ease. He’d never shared that much before, ever, and it was, in some ways a relief. Right up until the last phrase, oh well, might as well know. There was companionable silence, occasional glances that John felt were mildly uncomfortable, and finally Sherlock turned to him, removing the ice.

“Probably okay now?”

John stretched out an arm, touched the edges of the mark, shaking his head in disbelief at the turn of events. There was a barely palpable lump under. “Probably. It’s going to leave a nice mark though. Obviously from a fist.”

Sherlock shrugged, nonplussed. “They’ve been waiting for an altercation between us anyway, Lestrade and his goons.”

“We should invent a good story, then.” Bit of snickering from both of them, at that. “Perhaps one that doesn’t make me look quite so unstable and violent.” When there was deafening silence after that, John looked over at Sherlock, who was studying him seriously, intently. “What?”

“Is that what you think?” John gestured as if to say obviously, motioning toward Sherlock’s makeshift icepack. “Good grief, John. It makes you human. Nothing less.”

“Aren’t you usually the one usually maligning humanity?”

“You’re mistaking my criticism. It’s never been directed at you.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe it’ll heal before we have to say anything to anyone.” John stood, then, not feeling particularly sleepy but knowing the already short night was only getting shorter. “Thanks for ...” More chuckling, then, as John searched for an appropriate phrase and finding none.

“You’re welcome.” The gaze that passed between them was entirely electric, intimate. John could feel the heat emanating from himself and was not imagining it coming off Sherlock, either. He lay in bed for a few minutes that night, wondering when the mutual attraction had snuck up on them. And more importantly, what they were going to do about it.

Sherlock was already gone when John left for work the next day. By the time he was ready to leave work many hours later, he’d received a text from Lestrade.

**Saw your handiwork. Nice job. -GL**

While on the tube home, John fired off his own text to Sherlock. 

**So what did you tell Greg exactly? JW**

**Who is Greg? -SH**

**I think I’d like documentation on your supposed IQ. Greg Lestrade. -JW**

**IQ scores are both unreliable and unavailable. I said nothing to Lestrade. -SH**

**So he is just making assumptions, then? -JW**

**Tedious. Of course. No surprises. -SH**

**Ok, let him keep wondering. Me and my registered weapons will see you soon. Clean up before I get there. -JW**

**Have you seen the beetle lately? I can’t find Rodney anywhere. -SH**

**Rodney? Our lease specifies no pets. -JW**

**Focus, John. -SH**

John sighed. He discreetly took a photo of his left fist, clenched, bruising visible, added this caption:

**Keep Looking. You’ve got 10 minutes. -JW**

The flat was empty of humans when John got home. No sign of Rodney either. He pondered the name. There was no note. John ate dinner by himself, in his room, after thoroughly inspecting it for livestock, read a book until late, and went to bed.

++

A few days later, John's shift at the clinic ended, finally, after patients, families, computer slowness, various body fluids, and his own slight headache. He stopped at the desk to say goodnight to the receptionist.

"These got delivered earlier. One for you. Couple others. Big one for the office."

A basket of miscellany, then. He sighed, another thing to carry home, then checked himself. He was not usually an ungrateful wretch. "Who're they from, then?" There were snacks, a bottle of wine, fruit, box of tea.

"Last name Smythe, card says from a few weeks back, bad pneumonia. Doing better, sounds like."

"Nice basket." John couldn't recall the patient or scenario. Not surprising, given the volume of patients. His briefcase slung over a shoulder, he stepped out. Usually the walk home was relaxing, but the headache and the mist as dusk fell made a bad combo.

His phone buzzed. **Takeaway? SH**

He eyed the basket. If peanuts count as protein... maybe, apple, cheese. Might count as dinner?

**You could fix dinner, it’s just applied chemistry. JW**

**Who are you and what have you done with JW? SH**

**Better question, who are you and what have you done all day? JW**

**Calmed down Mrs. H after she found Rodney. We’re not getting evicted. SH**

**That’s minimally comforting. JW**

Mist was heavier as he turned down Baker St. A few doors prior to Speedy's he noticed a flyer taped to some of the doors, and paused, looking back to see more of them, scattered on his side of the street. Yup, one on his door, too. Removing it, he taped it to the basket, headed up the stairs. Arms tiring, he looked forward to setting everything down.

****

Across the street, binoculars lowered, the text sent was simply, **Nest is full.**

Mycroft's incoming text tone, he read the text, set the mobile down. _Well, boys, let’s see what you do with that._ All contained within the faintest gesture of the slight angulation of his head.

****

His consulting detective flatmate was flat on the couch, eyes closed, listening to a London Symphony Orchestra performance on the telly. "I don't smell food, John."

"No, don't get up, my arms aren't full or anything." He edged the basket down, set the briefcase on the table, hung up his coat, shook the mist out of his hair. Unsticking the notice, he read out loud, "Roving power outages this evening. Minimum 4 hours, make appropriate preparations.” He sighed. “Fantastic. Phone number to call." Amused, he watched Sherlock process this info, unfold off the couch, plug in his phone and check that the laptop was powered down. "Right. Highest priorities taken care of. Might want to boil water?" When Sherlock stared, confused, John pressed. “ _For tea?_ ”

He ignored that, asking, "Who's the basket from?"

"An appreciative patient. Some people do actually say thank you." Sherlock made a snarky face. “To me. I am actually appreciated outside of this flat. Certainly not inside it.”

“I would appreciate tea. And takeaway.”

As John crossed to the kitchen, there was a flicker of lights, and they were immersed in near total darkness. He sighed again, thinking to himself some day he could count the number of times Sherlock made him sigh to determine the frustration level in the flat. Today, it was likely going to be high on the scale. He stopped, not wishing to injure himself, pulled out his cell phone for illumination, and made his way to the fireplace.

“What are you doing? You can’t heat water in the fireplace.” John heard the couch springs sigh under his flatmate as he staked out his claim on said couch.

“Well,” John allowed condescension to rule his tone. “Perhaps you are immune to the cold, but I am not. And as I recall, you used the last two candles for their wax when you attempted to completely seal some random body part -”

“The ear. Pay attention, John.”

“- some random body part” John repeated, being intentionally firm, “in wax. Which limits the amount of light we may have without this.” He rolled up newsprint, placed a few smaller sticks on top, a small log, and put his hand where the matches usually were. Came up empty.

“Sherlock?”

“What?”

“Matches?”

“Oh, I used the last one. Didn’t you get more? They were on the shopping list.”

John counted his blessings, not for the first time that week, that he escaped Sherlock during working hours. “Do you have any more matches, a lighter perhaps, anywhere down here?”

“Only on the grocery list.” Apparently Sherlock wasn't about to reveal his stash of cigarettes which, John knew, in all probabilities had a lighter stashed alongside.

John felt his jaw clench, thought it was going to be a long and cold four hours if something - or someone - didn’t give. “You rest, I think I have a lighter upstairs.”

Silence. Using the screen for illumination, John’s phone battery flashed red as he carefully made his way upstairs to find the lighter. The room was typically cold, and, had the light been working, he was pretty sure he could have seen his breath. The window had been opened in his absence. Great, he thought wryly, closing it, another effort by Sherlock to conceal some experiment in olfactory aberrancy gone awry again. So while he was there, he put on warm pyjamas, slippers, and grabbed his comforter off the bed before going back downstairs. Might as well combine trips.

Within a few minutes, he had the fire lit downstairs, the room dimly orangely glowing as the smaller sticks caught. John stared, mesmerized by the amber flames and crackling sounds, which were loud in the otherwise still room.

Sherlock was quiet, for whatever reason, John thought, brooding was fine if it kept peace in the flat. He wrapped the comforter around him, wandered to the kitchen, grabbed one plate, one wine glass, the opener, then - recognizing the childishness about him and disliking it - added tableware for Sherlock, returned to the sitting room.

After decanting and pouring the wine, taking a sip, he leaned back comfortably in his chair, snuggled within downy warmth, let the quiet and warmth and wine settle his spirits. Sherlock hadn’t moved, but was awake, he could tell by the tension in his arms. He pulled open the rest of the basket next to him.

“So.” John began. “Here’s wine, if you want. Pretty good.” He sliced cheese, apple, opened a bag of almonds. Not exactly the dinner they usually shared, but it was working. “So, the flat needed airing out, apparently?”

“Little smoky this morning. Charred the ear trying to get the wax off.” He sat up suddenly, long limbs moving quickly. “How long is the power out? I don’t want the ice box to thaw.”

John shuddered. No one wanted that. He tried not to imagine the whole thing defrosting, oozing God-only knows what from the sealed doors onto the floor. Mrs Hudson would not appreciate toxic fluids through her ceiling again. “Supposed to be minimum 4 hours.”

“Probably shouldn’t open the refrigerator then, either.”

John held out his glass to Sherlock’s. “I’ll drink to that.” Clink. He listened as Sherlock described some of the highlights of his day, from the acrid smell of burning ears to something else he was trying with fingerprinting techniques on various surfaces coated with different compounds. John had a few of his own stories, grisly ones that would typically hold Sherlock’s attention. The wine bottle gradually emptied, they refilled the fireplace, and finally even Sherlock admitted he was cold.

“Bring your blanket over here, we can share.”

“Go get your own bloody blanket.”

“Mine will be cold. Yours is already warmed up.”

“And?”

“ _John._ ”

Sober, John never would have given in. And so, somehow, they ended up bundled under a comforter on the couch watching the fire and the wine bottle was empty. Sherlock’s toes were cold when he tucked them under John’s thigh, and John’s hands were cold when he retaliated by sliding them against the underside of Sherlock’s arm, the only skin he could reach without moving too much. “Those are colder than the ones in the ice box!” he whined.

“You’re one to talk, a bit more body fat would suit you. Warm you up.”

“So would tea.”

After a while, it was actually warmer under the comforter. The drafty flat was rather uninsulated and the temperature outside the covering was very cool. Apparently John found it funny that they could see their breath, the alcohol of course contributing, but finally they ran out of conversation and the fire was dying down. Both flatly refused to attend to it, and so, hours later when the lights suddenly illuminated, waking them both up from REM sleep, the flat was indeed very, very chilly.

John, ever the more practical of the two, or perhaps just the one who usually gave in first, stood up, taking blanket with him until Sherlock snatched it back out of his sleepy hands, leaving him tending to the fire and turning off lights feeling every frosty degree. Once the flat was dark again, he stood by the couch, quickly making up his mind. There was no way he was braving his arctic bedroom and frozen linens when these were warm here. Grabbing an edge of the blanket, he inserted his extremely chilled body right up against Sherlock, making sure cold hands and toes pierced the other’s warmth. He tensed in reaction, becoming rigid but not by shoving John away. His warmth was unaffected, continuing to radiate there in the silence. It didn’t take long for a relaxed stillness to resume, and, still sleepy from earlier and the wine, they both fell asleep again.

++

The morning began rather awkwardly, when John opened one eye to find Sherlock’s face inches away, long eyelashes against a pale cheek under high cheekbones. It would quickly become even more awkward. An unfortunate startle, he realized, as he became aware of another morning discomfort, his own, making its mildly throbbing presence known. And then another morning discomfort, not his own, poking him in the side. He willed his face not to flush, needlessly, because it happened regardless, he realized as formerly closed eyes were now open, sharpening into acute focus, and obvious physical sensations had become apparent. There was a mildly uncomfortable expression on Sherlock’s face, too, given their proximity and the intimacy of their positions and comforter. Bloody hell. John sat up, mumbled something about a shower, and disappeared down the hall, leaving comforter behind and glad that his back faced the room. He was pretty sure he heard chuckling as the door closed. _Oh, yeah, it’s just transport until it’s not._ The couch was empty when John returned from upstairs, packed a lunch, made tea into a travel mug, and dashed out the door to work. Bringing his wine-induced headache along for company.

John’s clinic hours passed quickly, the shift starting with the unfortunate effects of half a bottle of wine and then later punctuated with some patient oddities. John ended up sending one patient to hospital via ambulance with substernal chest pain and an evolving MI, which he discovered by symptoms and confirmed with electrocardiogram. Both he and the nurse assisting him were relieved once the patient was en route via advanced life support if needed, and the only other excitement of the day was the young adolescent who arrived to the office clearly impaired, under the influence of alcohol. Even with his own personal headache, John did not miss the irony. He had the parent step out, reluctantly, and the girl confessed to a recent sexual assault by a cousin and all kinds of anxiety. It ended up being a hot mess, involving NHS and eventually an officer from Scotland Yard. The parent had no idea, and John ended up much past his typical office hours.

He received a text while walking home.

**Mycroft wants to meet us for dinner tomorrow night. -SH**

John did not sense a need to respond.

Moments later, then, **Is that ok? -SH**

**I would expect so. Want me to get Chinese tonight? -JW**

**That would be nice. And merlot. And matches. -SH**

And so John arrived home with arms full again, Sherlock on the couch, again, but no notices of power cuts pending. 

“So a social dinner, with your brother?” John asked a bit later, his shoes off, the fire lit again, a glass of merlot in hand despite the headache he’d had earlier. The takeaway was on the sofa table, Sherlock had helped himself already, long fingers dextrous in application of chopsticks. John only used them when he wasn’t particularly ravenous, which, given the hour and his present state, was why he picked up a fork.

“He has a case he wants me to look at. I’m going to take it but thought I’d protest and bargain for some amenities, including your assistance.”

“Isn’t that a bit... odd. Even for your brother?”

“Oh, there’s more to the story. I’m working on figuring out what exactly.”

And he was still puzzled when, the following evening, Mycroft’s car, empty but for the driver, was sent to deliver the Baker Street pair to an out of the way bistro about an hour or so out of town. It was an old, stone-faced inn with an elegant air from entryway to broad inner staircase, charming, quaint. Warm lighting, cozy three sided fireplace jutting into the dining room. Lots of burgundy and dark wood surrounded well-set tables of linen, glass, and silver. Patronage seemed to be on the tail end of the weekday dinner rush, as it was already on the later side, and the men were led to a table with no sign of Mycroft.

Scotch was delivered to the table, something that seemed to be Mycroft’s choice arranged ahead of time, and it was burning and smooth. Sherlock hummed his approval as he sampled it. John’s reaction was slightly different, perhaps more practical. “He is paying for that, right? It tastes and looks expensive.”

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled a bit in amusement, John thought, unless it was just a random shadow from the fireplace. “Oh, he is definitely paying.”

“Did you swipe his credit card again?”

His attempt to look innocent failed, and John idly tipped a finger into the leatherbound menu on the table. “I’m feeling an expensive dinner coming on, then, as well.”

Sherlock texted Mycroft, regarding his atypical rudeness, but the message was unread and unresponded to. The maitre d arrived, refilled their scotches, asked if they wanted to continue waiting. Fingers elegant and long, Sherlock dismissed him and leaned back, crossing one ankle over a knee.

“You know I’m not a huge fan of drinking on an empty stomach.”

“Then switch to water, John. Obviously.”

“My glass will be empty once I toss this at you, though.” His threatening statement didn’t particularly worry Sherlock, as it was delivered with a grin as opposed to the murderous expression John had only pulled out a few times since coming to Baker Street.

The server returned, took an appetizer order, left again.

Conversation began, as was their wont, with deducing various specifics about some of the other patrons. Sherlock seemed particularly pleased when John either deduced something correctly or was able to creatively invent something clever. A few times, especially after they’d been at it for a while, John’s attempts at creativity bordered on strangely bizarre, and then Sherlock would consider if the story was true, based on truth, or completely made up. John had paid close attention to some of the more strange medical situations, and vividly recalled one of his profs telling them all that at times, truth is stranger than fiction. He would agree, based on clinical experience both in the military and out, that some stories just couldn’t be contrived. At a few times, both of them had to work at keeping their veiled laughter at a discreet volume.

Finally, Sherlock sighed, looked mildly annoyed, toyed with his tumbler. “You do realize Mycroft’s not coming, yeah?” John’s glance cut to Sherlock, silent, waiting for more information. “The hostess is on her way over to tell us.” He had leaned forward, speaking quietly.

The woman appeared then, as predicted, a paper in hand, addressing them both. “Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson?” She waited for affirmation. “I have a message, your dinner companion is unavoidably detained and is unable to join you.” She continued, “He expressed his regret, asked you to enjoy dinner on him. And,” she said, just a bit quieter, “there has been a room secured for you upstairs, as his driver is going to be unable to return for you and there is no cab service available tonight.”

John’s gaze cut quickly to Sherlock’s, who raised an eyebrow, smirked, and thanked the hostess.

Sherlock pulled open the menu, then, seemingly nonplussed at the turn of events. John watched until Sherlock felt his gaze, looked up, eyes wide, and said, “What?”

“You care to explain?”

“Mycroft isn’t coming.”

“Yeah. I heard that part.”

“He’s playing matchmaker. Obviously, John. Do catch up.”

“Mycroft?” and then he understood the rest of it. “ _Matchmaker?_ ”

Sherlock looked up, concerned at John’s tone, which was sounding rather stressed and higher pitched than usual. Their gaze held long minutes, or so it seemed. “John. Certainly you’ve realize by now that Mycroft thinks he has much more power over me than he really does. Think it through. We get a nice dinner, without his company - fan-bloody-tastic. Nothing happens just because Mycroft did something or didn’t.” He raised an amused eyebrow. Considered the statement that wanted to come out, debated, probably shouldn’t speak it, did anyway. “Unless he had something put into your drink.”

John closed his eyes. “Not funny. Not funny at all.”

Sherlock sat forward, pointed at John’s menu. “Dinner. Nothing has to change.” But the look in his eye, John thought, seemed to convey the opposite. While Sherlock studied John's expression before considering the menu, John let his eyes wander, taking in broad shoulders and chest across from him, slim but tightly muscled form, eyes that returned to his gaze, and had darkened, just a bit, before doing the same to John. “Find anything you’re interested in?” Sherlock asked, looking entirely too smug. A long leg stretched out then under the table, coming to rest above John’s ankle. Heat radiated.

John realized he’d been caught. Realized he'd wanted to be caught. “Yes. I’m definitely interested.” His tone over the final word, low pitched, slowly drawn out, and John was pleased to see Sherlock’s very bearing tighten as he understood. When their eyes met, the warmth that was exchanged left a glow in the pit of John’s stomach, and the very slightest hint of a satisfied although feral smile was evident on Sherlock’s face.

With a minimal flick of a long finger, he closed the menu. “Cheque please.” His voice carried just far enough for the hostess to nod.

The server complied, the cheque already taken care of. John picked up his scotch, brought it with him while Sherlock tossed the remainder of his down his throat, tipping his head while John could do very little but appreciate the neck in front of his eyes, swallowed hard, skin tingling in anticipation. Long fingers reached around the key dangled in front of him, and Sherlock led the way down the hallway to the broad and sweeping stairs up the back of the building. John felt his heart pounding, some, and the thrill of excitement, the high-alertness of arousal.

The door opened into a cozy room, small light already turned on, bedding turned down, champagne chilling next to a box of dark chocolates. “Oh for pity’s sake.”

John couldn’t help the laughter that burst from him. “Bugger, he’s ridiculous. I’m not sure if I should be offended at this or not.” He opened the chocolates, sampled one, looked at the champagne, said, “This is bound to be good, yeah?”

“Of course.” He turned, then pretending to be surprised. _Arrogant git._ “Oh, you mean the champagne?” Sherlock was at his elbow, put the lid back on the chocolates, ignored the sparkling beverage, and John was pretty sure, even from at least six inches away, he could feel the warmth exuding. “Probably. He’s ridiculous. Please, no further mention of my brother, it’s...”

“Deflating?” John asked, trying and failing not to snicker.

“Oh, no. No problem there.” There was a smirk, that endearing partial smile that bespoke amusement.

John’s eyes opened wider as Sherlock stood in front of him, hands sliding along slightly razor-stubbled face.

“Sorry, I would have shaved...”

“John.” Sherlock brushed a thumb over lips. “Stop talking.” Their heads came together, lips tentatively meeting, then firmer. Whatever might have felt slightly deflating to John earlier was now, well, hard and firm. It had been a bloody long time, and he actually briefly considered trying to think of Mycroft in order not to get too far ahead of things in his mind. The last thing he wanted to happen was for this... this... liaison to be over before it even got started. But his mouth, his vision, his senses were all full of Sherlock, and there was no room for anything else.

Mouths parted, and John reached up, sliding hands inside jacket, divesting it from tall lithe shoulders. The scarf followed, and John let sensitive fingers trail over clavicles, pectorals, slide along ribs, through the shirt and then underneath it, keenly aware of tense muscles and glorious, throbbing heat.

John’s own shirt fell open under buttons opened by long fingers, his chest arching toward touch, building, seeking. Their bodies then, chest to chest, pressed together. Sherlock’s hands went to John’s belt while Johns slid lower over dress trousers, feeling hard length beneath, his hands reaching lower, cupping structures behind shaft, reaching around behind him pulling buttocks closer. There was a low rumble, a hum, nearly a growling moan coming from Sherlock’s chest, and he pulled away.

“Sherlock, wait.” John’s eyes narrowed a bit. “How likely is there to be ... I don’t know, your crazy brother... video surveillance, here?” They both looked at the room. “I would just... I mean, he wouldn’t, would he?”

“God, you can sure kill a mood.” There was a snort of laughter, both of them looking around again, not finding anything innately suspect. “I sweep Baker street regularly, find things about every month or so, until he replaces them.” He sighed. “Maybe. Doubtful.” Looking around, he checked the lamp, the champagne bottle, even the chocolates for any devices, found none.

“Just kill the light. Solves the problem.”

Sherlock hesitated as if considering that. “Maybe I wanted to watch you.”

John’s pulse thrummed again, wondering at the thrills that awaited, said, “Guess we can save that for tomorrow. Tonight is perhaps all about how it feels.” And with that, the light was extinguished, the darkness adding heightened awareness to them both, increasing sensations of touch, sound, even scent. John inhaled deeply into the warm angle of Sherlock’s neck, aware of the slight hint of tobacco, sandstone, faint cologne, and something just intrinsically Sherlock. Hair product perhaps. His lips, almost of their own accord, tasted along shoulder, collarbone, working their way down.

Gentle hands on ribs, John eased him backward in the darkness until the edge of the bed came up behind them. While Sherlock was seated, John hesitated just long enough to get rid of the remainder of his clothes, then eased onto the bed, his hands just skimming lightly along to figure out the position of Sherlock’s body. He sensed a faltering in the other man, reached a hand up along his face, jaw. His pinky felt the skittering pulse of carotid artery. Sherlock’s hand came up, then, rested overtop of John’s.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” John asked.

A big breath spoke more to John than the words would, he thought. Quietly, Sherlock answered, “I’ve wanted this a long time, I think. Just... seems imagining it is very different than actually... “ His words trailed off.

“I’m nervous too." The body in John’s arms seemed to relax just slightly at that, and he continued quietly, “First time, you know, of sorts. With a bloke, I mean.”

John’s hands slid on angular jaw, shoulders. Muscles rippled as Sherlock arched his back just slightly, craving contact of skin, heat, muscle, hard. There was nothing soft or paunchy on Sherlock, John realized, touching lightly over iliac crest, reaching back to taut gluteals. Sherlock, in characteristic form, was unifocused, eye on the goal, satisfaction - immediately! His hand slid resolutely to John’s turgid cock, encircling, long fingers wrapping around, and John felt additional pulsations and engorgement in response. His hand started to move, already, a study in efficient time management and a race toward the finish. John reached down, stilled him.

“Whats the rush?”

“Orgasm is rather nice, as I recall,” Sherlock muttered, pressing his lips against the hollow over John’s sternum, his chest smoothly sliding along John’s, brushing deltoid and a smattering of chest hair. His hand was warm as he touched smooth skin along rib, feeling planes and softer angles. The skin under John’s arm, smooth and very soft. The healed wound over left shoulder, puckered, firmer, attached by scar tissue to underlying structures. “Do you like waiting?”

“Um, well, that kind of depends. There’s considerable fun in making someone else wait, I suppose, or even better when it’s a mutual thing.”

Sherlock’s fingers thrummed over John again, reaching down, moving once more. John’s hand answered, then, finally, one reaching to hold Sherlock similarly and finding throbbing tumescence, while his other slid down the narrow angle of Sherlock’s back, cupping rounded handful of arse. A movement or two from them both, and any thought of waiting, prolonging, drawing anything out longer had been banished, ousted in the name of fulfillment, satisfaction, and a few moans of “oh, my... wait...I’m going to...” and then, “oh my God.” 

John meant to stay awake, lingering in the post-coital haze of intimacy, intending to bask in the feel of a warm body pressed up against his own. His head found the angle of Sherlock's shoulder, with Sherlock's arm around behind his back, loosely resting on John's ribs. John's arm slid gently across the lightly-haired chest, his hand coming to rest surrounding pectoral musculature, possessive, belonging. He was asleep about ten seconds before Sherlock joined him.

++

“So, how do we exact revenge on your brother?” John asked as they pulled on clothing the next morning. It was unfortunate neither paid much attention to laying things out to prevent wrinkles. His trousers were slightly crumpled, but Sherlock’s looked ancient. The long coat would cover most, but John could tell he was self-conscious about it initially. Attention to clothing and fastidious fashion sense was something John just didn’t quite see the point of. Military uniform fallout, perhaps, when the only decision to be made was which white tee shirt to wear under fatigues. “We pretend it didn’t work, tell him you slept on the floor.”

“He’s rather intuitive, however. And by the way, sleeping on the floor would be something you would do, not me.” He looked skeptical. “Call him, tell him off, threaten him, act indignant...”

“You are always indignant with him, you realize.” John slid into shoes, grinning a bit as Sherlock feigned ignorance. “Perhaps you could fuss at him for ruining things, your seduction plan I mean.”

“Oh, now that’s brilliant.” Completely dressed now, the both of them, Sherlock turned toward the room. “I can give it out pretty good, know exactly what buttons to push. I can return the champagne for effect, if that’s ok with you.”

John reached for the doorknob. “Perhaps you can work in a nice holiday, I could totally use a nice getaway.” When Sherlock’s glance riveted on him, he added quickly, “With you, of course. That’s what I meant. We have a whole realm of... positions and things that I think might be fun to explore.”

There was a chuckle, then, and Sherlock muttered quietly, as they stepped out into the hallway, “Ah, Dr. Watson’s experimentation - I can hardly wait.” His voice was low, a bit gruff, and John was briefly concerned the new aspect of their sexual relationship might just prove a bit too scientific. John hesitated mid-stride. “We don’t have time now, John.”

“I hate it when you do that.” The leer that passed from one to the other as they rendezvoused with the cab left both of them wondering about proper etiquette in the back of a cab.

Sherlock gave the Baker Street address to the cabbie, but to John’s surprise, he did not join him on the kerb. “I’m headed to my brothers. This is best handled immediately, if I want to be convincing as possible. Most assuredly, I can throw an exquisite and very believable temper tantrum.”

John watched the door shut, and as he turned to enter Baker Street, he could only shake his head at what Sherlock said. Temper tantrum indeed. Getting Sherlock _not_ to throw the temper tantrum was the truly remarkable feat. The smile wasn’t going anywhere, though, John realized as he let himself into the flat. It looked much more welcoming, and John thought perhaps a shower and clean linens might be a rather auspicious beginning to the new undertakings going on there at home.

When Sherlock arrived home about an hour later, there was a bit of a coy grin on his face, a sparkle in his eye, and a venturesome flatmate who was very glad to see him. Sherlock had barely hung up his coat and turned when John reached out strong, eager arms, drawing him close for an exchange of a few minutes of heated snogs, hard muscles meeting of shoulder and back, entangling his hands in the curls, pulling their heads close. There was a rumbling laugh in Sherlock’s chest as he very slightly disengaged, just enough to say, “Let me shower first, and I’ll be ready to try whatever pleases you.”

Later, Sherlock emerged from the bath wrapped in only a towel and joined John in the bedroom. Curls were everywhere, damp, and he dropped the towel, plunked down on John’s lap when John didn’t acknowledge his presence immediately. John let the book fall that he had been not reading while pretending to ignore the lanky form parading in front of him, and arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me, did you want something?” he teased.

“Why are you reading? I thought perhaps there was a list. An experimentation list. Things to try?”

“There’s no list. I have no agenda. Definitely no spreadsheet.”

“Damn.”

“This is not work, you know. It’s not something to be conquered. Or something I would choose to look at as a difficulty.” When Sherlock turned his gaze quickly to disbelief, John continued, amending his statement, “Oh, not that you’re not difficult. You’re the most difficult person I’ve ever met. Ever.”

“Thank you.” He tossed his head, just a little, and a few droplets sprinkled from errant curls as John pulled his mouth down to meet his own.

“Get off me, you tosser. My legs are falling asleep.” When Sherlock rose, John was quickly on his feet as well, using forward momentum to propel them both onto the bed. The bedframe gave quite a creak, and they paused.

“Mrs. Hudson won’t care.”

“She will if we break the bed, you know.” John sat up next to Sherlock, then, watching his skin break out in gooseflesh as the cool air reached him. He blew gently toward Sherlock’s nipple, which puckered with both arousal and chill. Feeling slightly feisty, John ran the back of one fingernail from naval to neck, following it with lips teasing, moistening, then pausing to suck hard over pectoral muscle. When Sherlock took a deep breath in response, John raised his eyes to find staring blue ones, almost startled, riveted into his own. He did it again, found that the blue irises darkened slightly, pupils dilating. Up on hands and knees, then, he pressed kisses along collarbone, working his way down the tall form of his partner, stopping to breathe deep his scent, fresh from the shower, before his lips found purchase below.

He’d never actually given a blowjob before, and once he found something of an acceptable rhythm, he found it rather enjoyable, seeing, feeling, hearing, tasting the responses his mouth was generating. Sherlock’s voice, aroused, dropped into a lower register and definitely rumbled around his chest before becoming audible. John thought it just might be the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. Sherlock gave something of a warning, reached a hand down trying to lift John’s mouth off and away, John brushed it away, held him close, managing to pull back enough to swallow, then slide all the way back in. When all pulsations finally stopped and things were beginning to soften just a bit, he eased his head to the side, resting his cheek on Sherlock’s groin, enjoying the sensation until he heard a growl.

“You have entirely too many clothes on. Unacceptable.”

“Not all that observant, if you’re just seeing that now. Genius.” He grinned as Sherlock pulled at him, gesturing the removal of clothing and fussing until John complied and was laying alongside, the hardness of his shaft poking expectantly at Sherlock’s flat stomach. Sherlock reached over, opened the drawer of the bedside table, withdrew a container of lube, held it out to John. Who stared at it, met Sherlock’s eyes, a bit uncertain.

“What, that not on your list of ideas?” He snagged a pillow, tucked it under himself, slid a hand up alongside John’s face, drew him close for a kiss. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I promise not to be difficult about it.” He flipped open the bottle, sighed a bit in frustration, said “Left hand.”

John found his voice, then, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I won’t let you.” He squeezed out some of the gel. “John. Seriously. It’ll be fine. And then later I’ll tell you about where we are going on holiday.”

++

Sussex was not exactly John’s first choice for a great weeklong getaway, but, as they drove past the village and through Brighton, a few of the more urban options, restaurants, museums, even, he thought perhaps it might be just about perfect. Sherlock certainly seemed intrigued by some of the options present in the area. And, Mycroft had willingly made arrangements after being, according to Sherlock anyway, rather embarrassed at the related discomfort from the dinner stand-up fiasco last week.

The cab dropped them off at the villa, a single residence with gardens and a porch, that Mycroft had secured for the week. It was not a grand location, but more than adequate, a retreat with creature comforts, and as they carried in the few pieces of baggage they’d brought, John grinned. “This is going to be fantastic.”

“What do you want to try first?” There was a slight snarky edge to his voice, resonating deep in his chest and touching a similar spot, obviously a double entendre, and John felt his skin tingle in anticipation, just a bit. John dropped his bag where he stood, turning as Sherlock breathed up against him, their bodies aligning, heat and muscle and hardness. Mouths opened, one against the other, with tongue meeting teeth meeting the angle of the jaw. Sherlock snaked an arm around John’s back, pulling, lifting, pressing. John snuck hands up into Sherlock’s hair, knowing it was a complete toss-up who enjoyed that more. It seemed to excite Sherlock and disengage his brain a smidge. John had not yet used that to his advantage, but he was absolutely going to. Very shortly. He picked up his bag again, fully intending to begin some explorative festivities.

At that very moment, an incoming text tone sounded both of their phones at once. Not good, in all likelihood. Sherlock was not going to want to miss out on a case, even though he’d told Lestrade not to disturb him on holiday.

“ **You realize I am not fooled for one second that the dinner ended differently than you tried to present. It was a poor try, brother, and you should be ashamed at the attempt, but not at the relationship. I promise not to orchestrate another four hour power cut. I sent the champagne along ahead instead of a gift basket. -MH aka patient Smythe. Enjoy Sussex.”**

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft never seems to get a fair deal in the series. There's so much to him! While he certainly gives Sherlock a lot of grief (most of it completely deserved, as Sherlock is a complete twat to his brother), he does care and would be inclined to set things in motion as long as he got the last laugh.


End file.
